 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. The Lone Star Ranger. By Zane Gray, CHAPTER XII. Sometime during the night Dwayne awoke. A stillness seemingly so thick and heavy as to have substance blanketed the black willow-break. He could not see a star or a branch or tree-trunk or even his hand before his eyes. He lay there waiting, listening, sure that he had been awakened by an unusual sound. Ordinary noises of the night and the wilderness never disturbed his rest. His faculties, like those of old fugitives and hunted creatures, had become trained to a marvellous keenness. A long low breath of slow wind moaned through the willows, passed away. Some stealthy, soft-footed beast trotted by him in the darkness. There was a rustling among dry leaves. A fox barked lonesomely in the distance. But none of these sounds had broken his slumber. Suddenly, piercing the stillness, came a bay of a bloodhound. Quickly Dwayne sat up, chilled to his marrow. The action made him aware of his crippled arm. Then came other bays, lower, more distant. Silence enfolded him again, all the more oppressive and menacing in his suspense. Bloodhounds had been put on his trail, and the leader was not far away. All his life Dwayne had been familiar with bloodhounds, and he knew that if the pack surrounded him in this impenetrable darkness he would be held at bay or dragged down his wolves, dragged a stag. Rising to his feet, prepared to flee as best he could, he waited to be sure of the direction he should take. The leader of the hounds broke into cry again, a deep, full-toned, ringing bay, strange, ominous, terribly significant in its power. It caused a cold sweat to ooze out all over Dwayne's body. He turned from it, and with his uninjured arm, outstretched to feel for the willows, he groped his way along. As it was impossible to pick out the narrow passages, he had to slip and squeeze and plunge between the yielding stems. He made such a crashing that he no longer heard the baying of the hounds. He had no hope to elude them. He meant to climb the first cotton-wood that he stumbled upon in his blind flight. But it appeared he never was going to be lucky enough to run against one. Often he fell, sometimes flat, at others upheld by the willows. What made the work so hard was the fact that he had only one arm to open a clump of close-drawing stems, and his feet would catch or tangle in the narrow crotches, holding him fast. He had to struggle desperately. It was as if the willows were clutching hands, his enemies, fiendishly impeding his progress. He tore his clothes on sharp branches, and his flesh suffered many a prick. But in a terrible earnestness he kept on until he brought up hard against cotton-wood tree. There he leaned and rested. He found himself as nearly exhausted as he had ever been. Wet was sweat, his hands torn and burning, his breast laboring, his legs stinging from innumerable bruises. While he leaned there to catch his breath he listened for the pursuing hounds. For a long time there was no sound from them. This, however, did not deceive him into any hopefulness. There were bloodhounds that bade off and on a trail, and others that ran mostly silent. The former were more valuable to their owner, and the latter more dangerous to the fugitive. Presently Dwayne's ears were filled by a chorus of short, ringing yelps. The packet found where he had slept, and now the trail was hot. Satisfied that they would soon overtake him, Dwayne said about climbing the cotton-wood, which in his condition was difficult of ascent. It happened to be a fairly large tree with a fork about fifteen feet up, and branches thereafter in succession. Dwayne climbed until he got above the enshrouding belt of blackness. A pale gray mist hung above the break, and through it shone a line of dim lights. Dwayne decided these were bonfires made along the bluff to render his escape more difficult on that side. A way round in the direction he thought was north he imagined he saw more fires, but, as the mist was thick, he could not be sure. While he sat there pondering the matter, listening for the hounds, the mist and the gloom on one side lightened, and this side he concluded was east, and meant that Don was near. Satisfying himself on this score he descended to the first branch of the tree. His situation now, though still critical, did not appear to be so hopeless as it had been. The hounds would soon close in on him, and he would kill them or drive them away. It was beyond the bounds of possibility that any men could have followed running hounds through that break in the night. The thing that worried Dwayne was the fact of the bonfires. He had gathered from the words of one of his pursuers that the break was a kind of trap, and he began to believe there was only one way out of it, and that was along the bank where he had entered, and where obviously all night long his pursuers had kept fires burning. Further conjecture on this point, however, was interrupted by a crashing in the willows and the rapid patter of feet. Underneath Dwayne lay a gray, foggy obscurity. He could not see the ground, nor any object but the black trunk of the tree. Sight would not be needed to tell him when the pack arrived. With a pattering rushed through the willows the hounds reached the tree, and then high above crash of brush and thud of heavy paws rose a hideous clamour. Dwayne's pursuers far off to the south would hear that and know what it meant, and at date break, perhaps before, they would take a short cut across the break, guided by the baying of hounds that had treed their quarry. It wanted only a few moments, however, till Dwayne could distinguish the vague forms of the hounds and the gray shadow below. Still he waited. He had no shots to spare, and he knew how to treat blood hounds. Gradually the obscurity lightened, and at length Dwayne had good enough sight of the hounds for his purpose. His first shot killed the huge, brute leader of the pack. Then, with unerring shots, he crippled several others. That stopped the baying. Piercing howls arose. The pack took fright and fled, its course easily marked by the howls of the crippled members. Dwayne reloaded his gun, and, making certain all the hounds had gone, he descended to the ground and set off at a rapid pace to the northward. The mist had dissolved under a rising sun when Dwayne made his first halt some miles north of the scene where he had waited for the howls. A barrier to further progress, in shape of a precipitous rocky bluff, rose sheer from the willow break. He skirted the base of the cliff, where walking was comparatively easy, around in the direction of the river. He reached the end finally to see there was absolutely no chance to escape from the break at that corner. It took extreme labour, attended by some hazard and considerable pain to his arm, to get down where he could fill his sombrero with water. After quenching his thirst he had a look at his wound. It was caked over with blood and dirt. When washed off the arm was seen to be inflamed and swollen around the bullet hole. He bathed it, experiencing a soothing relief in the cool water. Then he bandaged it as best he could and arranged a sling round his neck. This mitigated the pain of the injured member and held it in a quiet and restful position, where it had a chance to begin mending. As Dwayne turned away from the river he felt refreshed. His great strength and endurance had always made fatigue something almost unknown to him. However, tramping on foot day and night was as unusual to him as to any other riders of the south-west, and it had begun to tell on him. Retracing his steps he reached the point where he had abruptly come upon the bluff and here he determined to follow along its base in the other direction until he found a way out or discovered the futility of such effort. Dwayne covered ground rapidly. From time to time he paused to listen, but he was always listening and his eyes were ever roving. This alertness had become second nature with him, so that, except in extreme cases of caution, he performed it while he pondered his gloomy and fateful situation. Such habit of alertness and thought made time fly swiftly. By noon he had rounded the wide curve of the break and was facing south. The bluff had petered out from a high mountainous wall to a low abutment of rock, but it still held to its steep, rough nature, and afforded no crack or slope where quick ascent could have been possible. He pushed on, growing wearier as he approached the danger zone, finding that as he neared the river on this side it was imperative to go deeper into the willows. In the afternoon he reached a point where he could see men pacing to and fro on the bluff. This assured him that whatever place was guarded was one by which he might escape. He headed toward these men and approached to within a hundred paces of the bluff where they were. There were several men and several boys, all armed, and, after the manner of Texans, taking their tasks leisurely. Farther down Dwayne made out black dots on the horizon of the bluff line, and these he concluded were more guards stationed at another outlet. Probably all the available men in the district were on duty. Texans took a grim pleasure in such work. Dwayne remembered that upon several occasions he had served such duty himself. Dwayne peered through the branches and studied the lay of the land. For several hundred yards the bluff could be climbed. He took stock of those careless guards. They had rifles, and that made vain any attempt to pass them in daylight. He believed an attempt by night might be successful, and he was swiftly coming to a determination to hide there till dark and then try it, when the sudden yelping of a dog betrayed him to the guards on the bluff. The dog had likely been placed there to give in alarm, and he was lustily true to his trust. Dwayne saw the men run together and begin to talk excitedly and peer into the break, which was a signal for him to slip away under the willows. He made no noise, and he assured himself he must be invisible. Nevertheless he heard shouts, then the cracking of rifles, and bullets began to zip and swish through the leafy covert. The day was hot and windless, and Dwayne concluded that whenever he touched a willow stem, even ever so slightly, it vibrated to the top and sent a quiver among the leaves. Through this the guards had located his position. Once a bullet hissed by him. Another thudded into the ground before him. This shooting loosed the rage in Dwayne. He had to fly from these men, and he hated them and himself because of it. Always in the fury of such moments he wanted to give back shot for shot. But he slipped on through the willows, and at length the rifles ceased to crack. He sheared to the left again in line with the rocky barrier and kept on, wondering what the next mile would bring. It brought worse. For he was seen by sharp-eyed scouts, and a hot fuselage drove him to run for his life, luckily to escape with no more than a bullet-creased shoulder. Later that day, still undaunted, he sheared again toward the trap wall, and found that the nearer he approached to the place where he had come down into the break, the greater his danger. To attempt to run the blockade of that trail by day would be fatal. He waited for night, and after the brightness of the fires had somewhat lessened, he assayed to creep out of the break. He succeeded in reaching the foot of the bluff, here only a bank, and had begun to crawl stealthily up under cover of a shadow when a hound again betrayed his position. Retreating to the willows was as perilous a task as had ever confronted Dwayne, and when he had accomplished it, right under what seemed a hundred blazing rifles, he felt that he had indeed been favored by Providence. This time men followed him a goodly ways into the break, and the ripping of lead through the willows sounded on all sides of him. When the noise of pursuit ceased, Dwayne sat down in the darkness, his mind clamped between two things, whether to try again to escape or wait for possible opportunity. He seemed incapable of decision. His intelligence told him that every hour lessened his chances for escape. He had little enough chance in any case, and that was what made another attempt so desperately hard. Still, it was not love of life that bound him. There would come an hour, sooner or later, when he would wrench decision out of this chaos of emotion and thought. But that time was not yet. When he had remained quiet long enough to cool off and recover from his run, he found that he was tired. He stretched out to rest. But the swarms of vicious mosquitoes prevented sleep. This corner of the break was low and near the river, a breeding ground for the bloodsuckers. They sang and hummed and whined around him in an ever increasing horde. He covered his head and hands with his coat and lay there patiently. That was a long and wretched night. Everything found him still strong physically, but in a dreadful state of mind. First he hurried for the river. He could withstand the pangs of hunger, but it was imperative to quench thirst. His wound made him feverish, and therefore more than usually hot and thirsty. Again he was refreshed. That morning he was hard put to it to hold himself back from attempting to cross the river. If he could find a light log it was within the pangs of possibility that he might ford the shallow water in bars of quicksand. But not yet. Wearily, doggedly, he faced about toward the bluff. All that day and all that night, all the next day and all the next night, he stole like a hunted savage from river to bluff, and every hour forced upon him the bitter certainty that he was trapped. Dwayne lost track of days, of events. He had come to an evil pass. There arrived an hour when, closely pressed by pursuers at the extreme southern corner of the break, he took to a dense thicket of willows, driven to what he believed was his last stand. If only these human bloodhounds would swiftly close in on him, let him fight to the last bitter gasp and have it over. But these hunters, eager as they were to get him, had care of their own skins. They took few risks. They had him cornered. It was the middle of the day, hot, dusty, oppressive, threatening storm. Like a snake Dwayne crawled into a little space in the darkest part of the thicket and lay still. Man had cut him off from the bluff, from the river, seemingly from all sides. But he heard voices only from in front and toward his left. Even if his passage to the river had not been blocked, it might just as well have been. "'Come on, fellows, down here,' called one man from the bluff. "'Got him corralled at last,' shouted another. "'Recognia needn't be too sure. We thought that more than once,' taunted another. "'I seen him,' I tell you. Oh, that was a deer.' But Bill found fresh tracks and blood on the willows. If he's winged, we needn't hurry. "'Hold on, dar, you boys,' came a shout in authoritative tones from farther up the bluff. "'Go slow. You all are gettin' foolish at the end of a long chase.' "'That's right, Colonel. Hold him back. There's nothing sure than somebody be stoppin' lid pretty quick. He'll be huntin' us soon. Let's surround this corner and starve him out.' "'Fire the break!' How clearly all this talk pierced Dwayne's ears. In it he seemed to hear his doom. This, then, was the end he had always expected, which been close to him before, yet never like now. "'By God,' whispered Dwayne, the thing for me to do now, is go out. Meet him.' That was prompted by the fighting, the killing instinct in him. In that moment it had almost superhuman power. If he must die, that was the way for him to die. What else could be expected of Buck Dwayne?' He got to his knees and drew his gun. With his swollen and almost useless hand he held with spare ammunition he had left. He ought to creep out noiselessly to the edge of the willows, suddenly face his pursuers. Then, while there was a beat left in his heart, kill, kill, kill. These men all had rifles. The fight would be short. But the marksmen did not live on earth who could make such a fight go wholly against him. Confronting them suddenly he could kill a man for every shot in his gun. Thus Dwayne reasoned. So he hoped to accept his fate, to meet this end. But when he tried to step forward something checked him. He forced himself. Yet he could not go. The obstruction that opposed his will was as insurmountable as it had been physically impossible for him to climb the bluff. Slowly he fell back, crouched low, and then lay flat. The grim and ghastly dignity that had been his a moment before fell away from him. He lay there stripped of his last shred of self-respect. He wondered was he afraid? Had he, the last of the Dwaynes, had he come to feel fear? No. Never in all his wild life had he so long to go out and meet men face to face. It was not fear that held him back. He hated this hiding, this eternal vigilance, this hopeless life. The damnable paradox of the situation was that if he went out to meet these men there was absolutely no doubt of his doom. If he clung to his covert there was a chance, a merest chance for his life. These pursuers, dogged and unflagging as they had been, were mortally afraid of him. It was his fame that made them cowards. Dwaynes' keenness told him that at the very darkest and most perilous moment there was still a chance for him. And the blood in him, the temper of his father, the years of his outlawry, the pride of his unsawed and hated career, the nameless, inexplicable something in him made him accept that slim chance. Waiting then became a physical and mental agony. He lay under the burning sun, parched by thirst, laboring to breathe, sweating and bleeding. His uncared forewound was like a red-hot prong in his flesh. Blotched and swollen from the never-ending attack of flies and mosquitoes, his face seemed twice as natural size, and it ached and stung. On one side then was this physical torture, on the other the old hell, that he augmented at this crisis in his mind. It seemed that thought and imagination had never been so swift. If death found him presently, how would it come? Would he get decent burial or be left for the peccaries and the coyotes? Would his people ever know where he had fallen? How wretched, how miserable his state! It was cowardly, it was monstrous for him to cling longer to this doomed life. Then the hate in his heart, the hellish hate of these men on his trail, that was like a scourge. He felt no longer human. He had degenerated into an animal that could think. His heart pounded, his pulse beat, his breast heaved, and this internal strife seemed to thunder into his ears. He was now enacting the tragedy of all crippled, starved, hunted wolves at bay in their dens. Only his tragedy was infinitely more terrible, because he had mind enough to see his plight, his resemblance to a lonely wolf, bloody fanged, dripping, snarling, fire-eyed in a last instinctive defiance. Mounted upon the horror of Dwayne's thought was a watching, listening intensity so supreme that it registered impressions which were creations of his imagination. He heard stealthy steps that were not there. He saw shadowy moving figures that were only leaves. A hundred times when he was about to pull trigger he discovered his error. Yet voices came from a distance, and steps and crackings in the willows, and other sounds real enough. But Dwayne could not distinguish the real from the false. There were times when the wind which had arisen sent a hot pattering breath down the willow aisles, and Dwayne heard it as an approaching army. This straining of Dwayne's faculties brought on a reaction which in itself was a respite. He saw the sun darken by thick, slow, spreading clouds. A storm appeared to be coming. How slowly it moved. The air was like steam. If there broke one of those dark, violent storms common though rare to the country, Dwayne believed he might slip away in the fury of wind and rain. Hope, that seemed unquenchable in him, resurged again. He hailed it with a bitterness that was sickening. Then, at a rustling step, he froze into the old, strained attention. He heard a slow patter of soft feet. A tawny shape crossed a little opening in the thicket. It was that of a dog. The moment while that beast came into full view was an age. The dog was not a bloodhound, and if he had a trail or a scent he seemed to be at fault on it. Dwayne waited for the inevitable discovery. Any kind of a hunting dog could have found him in that thicket. Voices from outside could be heard urging on the dog. Rover, they called him. Dwayne sat up at the moment the dog entered the little shaded covert. Dwayne expected a yelping, a baying, or at least a bark that would tell of his hiding-place. A strange relief swiftly swayed over Dwayne. The end was near now. He had no further choice. Let them come. A quick, fiercest exchange of shots. And then this torture passed. He waited for the dog to give the alarm. But the dog looked at him and trotted by into the thicket without a yelp. Dwayne could not believe the evidence of his senses. He thought he had suddenly gone deaf. He saw the dog disappear, heard him running to and fro among the willows, getting farther and farther away till all sound from him ceased. Dara's Rover, called a voice from the bluff side, he's been through that black patch. Nary a rabbit in there, replied another. Va, that pup's no good. Scornfully growled another man. Put a hound at that clump of willows. Fires again burned the break before the rain comes. The voices droned off as their owners evidently walked up the ridge. Then upon Dwayne fell the crushing burden of the old waiting, watching, listening spell. After all, it was not to end just now. His chance still persisted. Looked a little brighter. Let him on, perhaps, to forlorn hope. All at once Twilight settled quickly down upon the willow break, or else Dwayne noted it suddenly. He imagined it to be caused by the approaching storm. But there was little movement of air or cloud and thunder still muttered and rumbled at a distance. The fact was the sun had set, and at this time of overcast sky night was at hand. Dwayne realized it with the awakening of all his old force. He would yet, elude his pursuers. That was the moment when he seized the significance of all these fortunate circumstances which had aided him. Without haste and without sound he began to crawl in the direction of the river. It was not far, and he reached the bank before darkness set in. There were men up on the bluff carrying wood to build a bonfire. For a moment he half yielded to a temptation to try to slip along the river shore close in under the willows. But when he raised himself to peer out he saw that an attempt of this kind would be liable to failure. At the same moment he saw a rough hewn plank lying beneath him, lodged against some willows. The end of the plank extended in almost to a point beneath him. Quick as a flash he saw where a desperate chance invited him. Then he tied his gun in an oil-skin bag and put it in his pocket. The bank was steep and crumbly. He must not break off any earth to splash into the water. There was a willow growing back some few feet from the edge of the bank. Cautiously he pulled it down, bent it over the water so that when he released it there would be no springing back. Then he trusted his weight to it, with his feet sliding carefully down the bank. He went into the water almost up to his knees, felt the quick sand grip his feet. Then, leaning forward till he reached the plank, he pulled it toward him and lay upon it. Without a sound one end went slowly under water and the farther end appeared lightly braced against the overhanging willows. Very carefully then Dwayne began to extricate his right foot from the sucking sand. It seemed as if his foot was encased in solid rock. But there was a movement upward and he pulled with all the power he dared use. It came slowly and at length was free. The left one he released with less difficulty. The next few moments he put all his attention on the plank to ascertain if his weight would sink it into the sand. The far end slipped off the willows with a little splash and gradually settled to rest upon the bottom. But it sank no farther and Dwayne's greatest concern was relieved. However, as it was manifestly impossible for him to keep his head up for long, he carefully crawled out upon the plank until he could rest an arm and shoulder upon the willows. When he looked up it was to find the night strangely luminous with fires. There was a bonfire on the extreme end of the bluff, another a hundred paces beyond. A great flare extended over the break in that direction. Dwayne heard a roaring on the wind and he knew his pursuers had fired the willows. He did not believe that would help them much. The break was dry enough but too green to burn readily. And as for the bonfires he discovered that the men, probably having run out of wood, were keeping up the light with oil and stuff from the village. A dozen men kept watch on the bluff scarcely fifty paces from where Dwayne lay concealed by the willows. They talked, cracked jokes, sang songs, and manifestly considered this outlaw hunting a great lark. As long as the bright light lasted, Dwayne dared not move. He had the patient send the endurance to wait for the breaking of the storm, and if that did not come, then the early hour before dawn when the gray fog and gloom were over the river. Escape was now in his grasp. He felt it, and with that in his mind he waited, strong as steel in his conviction, capable ofwithstanding any strain and durable by the human frame. The wind blew in puffs, grew wilder, and roared through the willows, carrying bright sparks upward. Thunder rolled down over the river, and lightning began to flash. Then the rain fell in heavy sheets, but not steadily. The flashes of lightning and the broad flares played so incessantly that Dwayne could not trust himself out on the open river. Certainly the storm rather increased the watchfulness of the men on the bluff. He knew how to wait, and he waited, grimly standing, pain and cramp and chill. The storm wore away as desulterally as it had come, and the long night set in. There were times when Dwayne thought he was paralyzed, others when he grew sick, giddy, weak from the strained posture. The first pailing of the stars quickened him with the kind of wild joy. He watched them grow paler, dimmer, disappear one by one. A shadow hovered down, rested upon the river, and gradually thickened. The bonfire on the bluff showed as through a foggy veil. The watches were mere groping dark figures. Dwayne, aware of how cramped he had become from long inaction, began to move his legs and uninjured arm and body, and at length overcame a paralyzing stiffness. Then, dicking his hand in the sand and holding the plank with his knees, he edged it out into the river. Inch by inch he advanced until clear of the willows. Looking upward he saw the shadowy figures of the men on the bluff. He realized they ought to see him, feared that they would. But he kept on, cautiously, crazelessly, with a heart-numbing slowness. From time to time his elbow made a little gurgle and splash in the water. Try as he might he could not prevent this. It got to be like the hollow roar of a rapid filling his ears with mocking sound. There was a perceptible current out in the river, and it hindered straight advancement. Inch by inch he crept on, expecting to hear the bang of rifles, the spattering of bullets. He tried not to look backward, but failed. The fire appeared a little dimmer, the moving shadows a little darker. Once the plank stuck in the sand and felt as if it were settling. Bringing feet to aid his hand, he shoved it over the treacherous place. This way he made faster progress. The obscurity of the river seemed to be enveloping him. When he looked back again the figures of the men were coalescing with the surrounding gloom. The fires were streaky, blurred patches of white. But the sky above was brighter, dawn was not far off. To the west all was dark, with infinite care and implacable spirit and waning strength. Dwayne shoved the plank along, and when at last he discerned the black border of bank it came in time he thought to save him. He crawled out, rested till the gray dawn broke, and then headed north through the willows. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of some Williamsville, South Carolina. THE LONE STAR RANGER By Zane Gray CHAPTER XIII How long Dwayne was traveling out of that region he never knew. But he reached familiar country and found a rancher who had before befriended him. Here his arm was attended to. He had food and sleep, and in a couple of weeks he was himself again. When the time came for Dwayne to ride away on his endless trail, his friend reluctantly imparted the information at some thirty miles south, near the village of Shirley. There was posted at a certain cross-road a reward for Buck Dwayne, dead or alive. Dwayne had heard of such notices, but he had never seen one. His friend's reluctance and refusal to state for what particular deed this reward was offered roused Dwayne's curiosity. He had never been any closer to Shirley than this rancher's home. Doubtless some post-office burglary, some gun-shooting scrape had been attributed to him, and he had been accused of worse deeds. A abruptly Dwayne decided to ride over there and find out who wanted him dead or alive and why. As he started south on the road he reflected that this was the first time he had ever deliberately hunted trouble. Introspection awarded him this knowledge. During that last terrible flight on the lower Nooses and while he lay a bed recuperating he had changed. A fixed, immutable, hopeless bitterness abided with him. He had reached the end of his rope. All the power of his mind and soul were unavailable to turn him back from his fate. That fate was to become an outlaw in every sense of the term, to be what he was credited with being, that is to say, to embrace evil. He had never committed a crime. He wondered now was crime close to him. He reasoned finally that the desperation of crime had been forced upon him, if not its motive, and that if driven there was no limit to his possibilities. He understood how many of the hitherto inexplicable actions of certain noted outlaws, why they had returned to the scene of the crime that had outlawed them, why they took such strangely fatal chances, why life was no more to them than a breath of wind, why they rode straight into the jaws of death to confront wrong men, or hunting rangers, vigilantes, to laugh in their very faces. It was such bitterness as this that drove these men. Toward afternoon, from the top of a long hill, Dwayne saw the green fields and trees and shining roofs of a town he considered must be surely. And at the bottom of the hill he came upon an intersecting road. There was a placard nailed on the cross-road signpost. Dwayne drew rain near it and leaned close to read the faded print. One thousand dollar reward for Buck Dwayne, dead or alive. Peering closer to read the finer, more faded print, Dwayne learned that he was wanted for the murder of Mrs. Jeff Aiken at her ranch near Shirley. The month September was named, but the date was illegible. The reward was offered by the woman's husband, whose name appeared with that of a sheriff's at the bottom of the placard. Dwayne read the thing twice. When he straightened he was sick with the horror of his fate, wild with passion at those misguided fools who could believe that he had harmed a woman. Then he remembered Kate Bland, and as always when she returned to him he quaked inwardly. Years before word had gone abroad that he had killed her, and so it was easy for men wanting to fix a crime to name him. Perhaps it had been done often. Probably he bore on his shoulders a burden of numberless crimes. A dark, passionate fury possessed him. It shook him like a storm shakes the oak. When it passed, leaving him cold, with clouded brow and piercing eye, his mind was set. Spurring his horse he rode straight toward the village. Shirley appeared to be a large, pretentious country town. A branch of some railroad terminated there. The main street was wide, bordered by trees and commodious houses, and many of the stores were a brick. A large plaza shaded by giant cottonwood trees occupied a central location. Dwayne pulled his running horse and halted him, plunging and snorting before a group of idle men who lounged on benches in the shade of a spreading cottonwood. How many times had Dwayne seen just that kind of lazy, shirt-sleeved Texas group? Not often, however, had he seen such placid, lowling, good-natured men change their expression, their attitude so swiftly. His advent apparently was momentous. They evidently took him for an unusual visitor. As far as Dwayne could tell, not one of them recognized him, had a hint of his identity. He slid off his horse and threw the bridle. "'I'm Buck Dwayne,' he said. "'I saw that placard out there on a sign post. It's a damn lie. Somebody find this man, Jeff Aiken. I want to see him.' His announcement was taken in absolute silence. That was the only effect he noted, for he avoided looking at these villagers. The reason was simple enough. Dwayne felt himself overcome with emotion. There were tears in his eyes. He sat down on a bench, put his elbows on his knees and his hands to his face. For once he had absolutely no concern for his fate. This ignominy was the last draw. Presently, however, he became aware of some kind of commotion among these villagers. He heard whisperings, low, hoarse voices, then the shuffle of rapid feet moving away. All at once a violent hand jerked his gun from its holster. When Dwayne rose a gaunt mad, livid of face, shaking like a leaf confronted him with his own gun. "'Hands up there, you buck Dwayne!' he roared, waving the gun. It appeared to be the cue for pandemonium to break loose. Dwayne opened his lips to speak, but if he had yelled at the top of his lungs he could not have made himself heard. In weary disgust he looked at the gaunt man, and then at the others, who were working themselves into a frenzy. He made no move, however, to hold up his hands. The villagers surrounded him, emboldened by finding him now unarmed. Then several men lay hold of his arms and pinging them behind his back. Resistance was useless, even if Dwayne had had the spirit. Some one of them fetched his holter from his saddle, and with this they bound him helpless. People were running now from the street, the stores, the houses. Old men, cowboys, clerks, boys, ranchers, came on the trot. The crowd grew. The increasing clamor began to attract women as well as men. A group of girls ran up, then hung back in fright and pity. The presence of cowboys made a difference. They split up the crowd, got to Dwayne, and lay hold of him with rough business-like hands. One of them lifted his fists and roared at the frenzied mob to fall back, to stop the racket. He beat them back into a circle. But it was some little time before the hubbub quieted down so a voice could be heard. "'Shut up, will y'all,' he was yelling. "'Give us a chance to hear something. Easy now. So there ain't nobody going to be hurt. That's right. Everybody quiet now. Let's see what's come off.'" This cowboy, evidently one of authority, or at least one of strong personality, turned to the gauntman who still waved Dwayne's gun. "'Ae, put the gun down,' he said. "'It might go off. Here, give it to me. Now what's wrong? Who's this rope-jant in what's he done?' The gaunt fellow, who appeared now about to collapse, lifted a shaking hand and pointed, "'That there, feller, he's buck Dwayne,' he panted. An angry murmur ran through the surrounding crowd. The rope! The rope! Throw it over a branch. String him up!' cried an excited villager. "'Buck Dwayne! Buck Dwayne! Hang him!' The cowboy silenced these cries. "'Abe, how do you know this fellow is Buck Dwayne?' he asked sharply. "'Why, he said so,' replied the man, called Abe. "'What!' came the exclamation, incredulously. "'It's a tarnal fact!' Panted Abe, waving his hands importantly. He was an old man and appeared to be carried away with the significance of his deed. He liked to rid his horse right over us all. Then he jumped off, says he was buck Dwayne, and he wanted to see Jeff Aiken bad. This speech caused a second commotion as noisy, though not so enduring as the first. When the cowboy, assisted by a couple of his mates, had restored order again, some wanted to slip the new sand of Dwayne's rope over his head. "'Up with him!' screeched a wild-eyed youth. The mob surged closer, was shoved back by the cowboys. "'Abe, if you ain't drunk or crazy, tell that over!' ordered Abe's into locator. With some show of resentment and more of dignity Abe reiterated his former statement. "'If he's buck Dwayne, how in hell did you get hold of his gun?' bluntly queried the cowboy. "'Why, he's set down there, and he kinda hid his face on his hand, and I grabbed his gun and got the drop on him.' What the cowboy thought of this was expressed in a laugh. His mates likewise grinned broadly, then the leader turned to Dwayne. "'Stranger, I reckon you'd better speak up for yourself,' he said. That still the crowd as no command had done. "'I'm buck Dwayne all right,' said Dwayne quietly. It was this way.' The big cowboy seemed to vibrate with a shock. All the ruddy warmth left his face. His jaw began to bulge. The corded veins in his neck stood out in knots. In an instant he had a hard, stern, strange look. He shot out a powerful hand that fastened in the front of Dwayne's blouse. "'Something queer here, but if you're Dwayne you're sure in bad. Any fool ought to know that. You mean it, then?' Yes. Rode in to shoot up the town, eh? Some old stunt-of-you gun-fighters. Meant to kill the man who offered a reward. Wanted to see Jeff Acke in bad, huh?' "'No,' replied Dwayne. "'Your citizen here misrepresented things. He seems a little off his head.' "'Reckon he is. Somebody is. That's sure. You claim Buck Dwayne, then, and all his doings?' "'I'm Dwayne, yes, but I won't stand for the blame of things I never did. That's why I'm here. I saw that placard out there offering the reward. Until now I never was within a half-day's ride of this town. I'm blamed for what I never did. I rode in here, told who I was, asked somebody to send for Jeff Acke. And then you sat down and let this old guy throw your own gun on you?' queried the cowboy in amazement. "'I guess that's it,' replied Dwayne. "'Well, it's powerful strange if you're really Buck Dwayne.'" A man elbowed his way into the circle. "'It's Dwayne. I recognize him. I've seen him in more than one place,' he said. "'Cybert, you can rely on what I tell you. I don't know if he's low-code or what, but I do know he's the genuine Buck Dwayne. Anyone who'd ever seen him once would never forget him.' "'What do you want to see Aiken for?' asked the cowboy, Cybert. "'I want to face him and tell him I never harmed his wife.' "'Why?' "'Because I'm innocent. That's all.' "'Suppose we send for Aiken, and he hears you and doesn't believe you. What then?' "'If he won't believe me. Why, then, my case is so bad, I'd be better off dead.'" A momentary silence was broken by Cybert. "'If this isn't a queer deal, boys, reckon we better send for Jeff?' "'Somebody went for him. He'll be coming soon,' replied a man. Dwayne stood ahead taller than that circle of curious faces. He gazed out above and beyond them. It was in this way that he chanced to see a number of women on the outskirts of the crowd. Some were old, with hard faces, like the men. Some were young and cumbly, and most of these seemed agitated by excitement or distress. The cast fearful, pitying glances upon Dwayne as he stood there with that noose round his neck. Women were more human than men, Dwayne thought. He met eyes that dilated, seemed fascinated at his gaze, but were not averted. It was the old women who were viable, loud in expression of their feelings. Near the truck of the cotton-woods stood a slender woman in white. Dwayne's wandering glance rested upon her. Her eyes were riveted upon him. A soft-hearted woman, probably, who did not want to see him hanged. "'Dar comes, Jeff Hake, and now!' called a man loudly. The crowd shifted and trampled in eagerness. Dwayne saw two men coming fast, one of whom in the lead was of stalwart build. He had a gun in his hand, and his manner was that of fierce energy. The cowboy-cybert thrust open the jostling circle of men. "'Hold on, Jeff,' he called, and he blocked the man with the gun. He spoke so low Dwayne could not hear what he said, and his form hid Aiken's face. Had that juncture the crowd spread out, closed in, and Aiken and Cybert were caught in the circle. There was a pushing forward, a pressing of many bodies, horse-cries and flinging hands. Again the insane tumult was about to break out. The demand for an outlaw's blood, the call for a wild justice, executed a thousand times before on Texas's bloody soil. Cybert bellowed at the dark encroaching mass. The cowboys with him beat and cuffed in vain. "'Jeff, will you listen?' broken Cybert hurriedly, his hand on the other man's arm. Aiken nodded coolly. Dwayne, who had seen many men in perfect control of themselves under circumstances like these, recognized the spirit that dominated Aiken. He was white, cold, passionless. There were lines of bitter grief deep round his lips. If Dwayne ever felt the meaning of death, he felt it then. "'Sure, this is your game, Aiken,' said Cybert. But hear me a minute. Reckon there's no doubt about this man being Buck Dwayne. He's seen the placard out at the crossroads. He rides into Shirley. He says he's Buck Dwayne and he's looking for Jeff Aiken. That's all clear enough. You know how these gunfighters go looking for trouble. But here's what stumps me. Dwayne sits down there on the bench and lets old Abe Strickland grab his gun and get the drop on him. More than that he gives me some strange talk about how, if he couldn't make you believe he's innocent, he'd better be dead. You see for yourself Dwayne ain't drunk or crazy or low-code. He doesn't strike me as a man who wrote in here hunting blood. So I reckon you better hold on till you hear what he has to say. Then for the first time the drawn-faced, hungry-eyed giant turned his gaze upon Dwayne. He had intelligence which was not yet subservient to passion. Moreover, he seemed the kind of man Dwayne would care to have judge him in a critical moment like this. "'Listen,' said Dwayne gravely, with his eyes steady on Aiken's. I'm Buck Dwayne. I never lied to any man in my life. I was forced into outlawry. I never had a chance to leave the country. I've killed men to save my own life. I never intentionally harmed any woman. I wrote thirty miles to-day deliberately to see what this reward was. Who made it? What for? When I read the placard I went sick to the bottom of my soul. So I wrote in here to find you, to tell you this. I never saw Shirley before to-day. It was impossible for me to have killed your wife. Last September I was two hundred miles north of here on the upper Nussys. I can prove that. Men who know me will tell you I couldn't murder a woman. I haven't any idea why such a deed should be laid at my hands. It's just that wild-border gossip. I have no idea what reasons you have for holding me responsible. I only know. You're wrong. You've been deceived. And see here, Aiken, you understand I'm a miserable man. I'm about broken, I guess. I don't care any more for life, for anything. If you can't look me in the eyes, man to man, and believe what I say, why, by God, you can kill me. Aiken heaved a great breath. Bucked, Wayne, whether I'm impressed or not by what you say needn't matter. You've had accusers, justly or unjustly, as will soon appear. The thing is, we can prove you innocent or guilty. My girl Lucy saw my wife's assailant. He motioned for the crowd of men to open up. Somebody, you, Cybert, go for Lucy. That'll settle this thing. Dwayne heard as a man in an ugly dream. The faces around him, the hum of voices, all seemed far off. His life hung by the nearest thread. Yet he did not think of that so much as of the brand of a woman murderer which might soon be sealed upon him by a frightened imaginative child. The crowd trooped apart and closed in again. Dwayne caught a blurred image of a slight girl clinging to Cybert's hand. He could not see distinctly. Aiken lifted the child, whispered soothingly to her not to be afraid. Then he fetched her closer to Dwayne. Lucy, tell me, did you ever see this man before? Asked Aiken, huskily and low. It is he the one who came in the house that day, struck you down and dragged Mama—Aiken's voice failed. A lightning flash seemed to clear Dwayne's blurred sight. He saw a pale sad face and violet eyes fixed in gloom and horror upon his. No terrible moment in Dwayne's life ever equaled this one of silence, of suspense. It ain't him! cried the child. Then Cybert was flinging the new soft Dwayne's neck and unwinding the bonds round his arms. The spellbound crowd awoke the horse exclamations. See there, my loco-jents, how easy you'd hang the wrong man! First out the cowboy as he made the rope-end hiss. You all are a lot of wise rangers, ha-ha! He freed Dwayne and thrust the bone-handled gun back in Dwayne's holster. You, Abe, there! reckon you pulled a stunt. But don't try the like again. And, men, again, but there's a hail of a lot of bad work buck Dwayne's name for, which all he never done. Clear way there. Where's his haws? Dwayne, the road's open out of Shirley. Cybert swept the gaping watchers aside and pressed Dwayne toward the horse, which another cowboy held. Mechanically Dwayne mounted, felt a lift as he went up. Then the cowboy's hard face softened in a smile. I reckon it ain't uncivil of me to say. Hit that road quick," he said frankly. He led the horse out of the crowd. Ake and joined him, and between them they escorted Dwayne across the plaza. The crowd appeared irresistibly drawn to follow. Ake and paused with his big hand on Dwayne's knee. In it, unconsciously probably, he still held the gun. Dwayne, a word with you. He said, I believe you're not so black as you've been painted. I wish there was time to say more. Tell me this, anyway. Do you know the Ranger Captain McNally? I do not, replied Dwayne in surprise. I met him only a week ago over in Fairfield. Went on Ake and hurriedly. He declared you never killed my wife. I didn't believe him. Argued with him. We almost had hard words over it. Now I'm sorry. The last thing he said was, If you ever see Dwayne, don't kill him. Send him into my camp after dark. He meant something strange. What I can't say. But he was right, and I was wrong. If Lucy had batted an eye I'd have killed you. I wouldn't advise you to hunt up McNally's camp. He's clever. Maybe he believes there's no treachery in his new ideas of Ranger tactics. I tell you for all it's worth. Goodbye. May God help you further as he did this day. Dwayne said goodbye and touched the horse with his spurs. So long, Buck! called Cybert with that frank smile breaking warm over his brown face, and he held his sombrero high. CHAPTER XIV When Dwayne reached the crossing of the roads the name Fairfield on the signpost seemed to be the thing that tipped the oscillating balance of decision in favor of that direction. He answered here to unfathomable impulse. If he had been driven to hunt up Jeff Aiken, now he was called to find this unknown Ranger Captain. In Dwayne's state of mind clear reasoning, common sense, or keenness were out of the question. He went because he felt he was compelled. Dusk had fallen when he rode into a town which inquiry discovered to be Fairfield. Captain McNally's camp was stationed just out of the village limits on the other side. No one except the boy, Dwayne questioned, appeared to notice his arrival. Like Shirley, the town of Fairfield was large and prosperous, compared to the innumerable hamlets dotting the vast extent of southwestern Texas. As Dwayne rode through, being careful to get off the main street, he heard the tolling of a church bell that was a melancholy reminder of his old home. There did not appear to be any camp on the outskirts of the town. But as Dwayne sat his horse, peering round and undecided what further move to make, he caught the glint of flickering lights through the darkness. Heading toward them, he rode perhaps a quarter of a mile to come upon a grove of mesquite. The brightness of several fires made the surrounding darkness all the blacker. Dwayne saw the moving forms of men and herd horses. He advanced naturally, expecting any moment to be halted. "'Who goes there?' came the sharp call, out of the gloom. Dwayne pulled his horse. The gloom was impenetrable. "'One man alone,' replied Dwayne. "'A stranger?' "'Yes.' "'What do you want?' "'I'm trying to find the Ranger camp.' "'You struck it. What's your errand?' "'I want to see Captain McNally.' "'Get down in advance. Slow. Don't move your hands. It's dark, but I can see.' Dwayne dismounted and, leading his horse, slowly advanced a few paces. He saw a dully bright object, a gun, before he discovered the man who held it. A few more steps showed a dark figure blocking the trail. Here Dwayne halted. "'Come closer, stranger. Let's have a look at you.' The guard ordered curtly. Dwayne advanced again until he stood before the man. Here the rays of light from the fires flickered upon Dwayne's face. "'Reckon you're a stranger. All right. What's your name and your business with the Captain?' Dwayne hesitated, pondering what best to say. "'Tell Captain McNally, I'm the man he's been asking to ride into his camp, after dark,' finally said Dwayne. The Ranger bent forward to peer hard at this night visitor. His manner had been alert, and now it became tense. "'Come here, one of you men, quick,' he called, without turning, in the least toward the campfire. "'Hello. What's up, Pickens?' came the swift reply. It was followed by a rapid thud of boots on soft ground. A dark form crossed the gleams from the firelight. Then a Ranger loomed up to reach the side of the guard. Dwayne heard whispering, the purport of which he could not catch. The second Ranger swore under his breath. Then he turned away and started back. "'Here, Ranger, before you go, understand this. My visit is peaceful. Friendly, if you'll let it be. Mind, I was asked to come here, after dark.' Dwayne's clear penetrating voice carried far. The listening Rangers at the campfire heard what he said. "'No, Pickens, tell that fellow to wait,' replied an authoritative voice. Then a slim figure detached itself from the dark moving group at the campfire and hurried out. "'Better be foxy, Cap,' shouted a Ranger in warning. "'Shut up, all of you,' was the reply. This officer, obviously Captain McNally, soon joined the two Rangers who were confronting Dwayne. He had no fear. He strode straight up to Dwayne. "'I, McNally,' he said. "'If you're my man, don't mention your name, yet.' "'All this seems so strange to Dwayne, in keeping with much that it happened lately.' "'I met Jeff Akin today,' said Dwayne. "'He sent me.' "'You've met Akin!' exclaimed McNally, sharp. "'Eager, low. By all that's bully!' Then he appeared to catch himself, to grow restrained. "'Men, fall back. Leave us alone a moment.' The Ranger slowly withdrew. "'Buck Dwayne, it's you,' he whispered eagerly. "'Yes. If I give my word, you'll not be arrested. You'll be treated fairly. Will you come into camp and consult with me?' "'Certainly.' "'Dwayne, I'm sure glad to meet you,' went on McNally, and he extended his hand. "'Amazed and touched. Scarcely realizing this actuality, Dwayne gave his hand and felt the unmistakable grip of warmth. "'It doesn't seem natural, Captain McNally, but I believe I'm glad to meet you,' said Dwayne soberly. "'You will be. Now we'll go back to camp. Keep your identity mum for the present.' He led Dwayne in the direction of the campfire. "'Peckens, go back on duty,' he ordered. "'And Beeson, you look after this horse.' When Dwayne got beyond the line of Mesquite, which had hit a good view of the campsite, he saw a group of perhaps fifteen Rangers sitting around the fires, near a long low shed where horses were feeding, and a small adobe house at one side. "'We've just had grub, but I'll see you get some. Then we'll talk,' said McNally. "'I've taken up temporary quarters here. Have a rustler job on hand. Now when you've eaten, come right into the house.' Dwayne was hungry, but he hurried through the ample supper that was set before him, urged on by curiosity and astonishment. The only way he could account for his presence there in a ranger's camp was that McNally hoped to get useful information out of him. Still that would hardly have made this captain so eager. There was a mystery here, and Dwayne could scarcely wait for it to be solved. While eating he had bent keen eyes around him. After first quiet scrutiny the Rangers apparently paid no more attention to him. They were all veterans in service. Dwayne saw that, and rugged powerful men of iron constitution. Despite the occasional joke and sally of the more youthful members, and a general conversation of campfire nature, Dwayne was not deceived about the fact that his advent had been an unusual and striking one, which had caused an undercurrent of conjecture and even consternation among them. These Rangers were too well trained to appear openly curious about their captain's guest. If they had not deliberately attempted to be oblivious of his presence, Dwayne would have concluded they thought him an ordinary visitor, somehow of use to McNally. As it was, Dwayne felt a suspense that must have been due to a hint of his identity. He was not long in presenting himself at the door of the house. "'Come in and have a chair,' said McNally, motioning for the one other occupant of the room to rise. "'Leave us, Russell, and close the door. I'll be through these reports right off.'" McNally sat at a table, upon which was a lamp in various papers. Seen in the light he was a fine-looking, soldierly man of about forty years, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a bronzed face, shrewd, stern, strong, yet not wanting in kindness. He scanned hastily over some papers, fussed with them, and finally put them in envelopes. Without looking up he pushed a cigar case toward Dwayne, and upon Dwayne's refusal to smoke he took a cigar, rose to light it at the lamp-gymny, and then, settling back in his chair, he faced Dwayne, making a vain attempt to hide what must have been the fulfillment of a long-nourished curiosity. "'Dwayne, I've been hoping for this for two years,' he began. Dwayne smiled a little, a smile that felt strange on his face. He had never been much of a talker, and speech here seemed more than ordinarily difficult. McNally must have felt that. He looked long and earnestly at Dwayne, and his quick nervous manner changed to grave thoughtfulness. "'I've lots to say, but where to begin?' he mused. "'Dwayne, you had a hard life since you went on the dodge. I never met you before. Don't know what you look like as a boy. But I can see what, well, even range your life isn't all roses.' He rolled his cigar between his lips and puffed clouds of smoke. "'Ever hear from home since you left Wellston?' he asked abruptly. "'No.' "'Never a word?' "'Not one,' replied Dwayne sadly. "'That's tough. I'm glad to be able to tell you that up to just lately your mother, sister, uncle, all your folks, I believe, were well. I've kept posted, but haven't heard lately.' Dwayne averted his face a moment, hesitated till the swelling left his throat, and then said, "'It's worth what I went through to-day to hear that.' "'I can imagine how you feel about it, when I was in the war. But let's get down to the business of this meeting.' He pulled his chair close to Dwayne's. "'You've had word more than once in the last two years that I wanted to see you?' "'Three times, I remember,' replied Dwayne. "'Why didn't you hunt me up?' "'I suppose you imagined me one of those gun-fighters who couldn't take a dare and expected me to ride up to your camp and be arrested.' "'That was natural, I suppose,' went on McNally. "'You didn't know me, otherwise you would have come. "'I've been a long time getting to you, but the nature of my job, as far as your concern, may be cautious. "'Dwayne, you're aware of the hard name you bear all over the south-west?' "'Once in a while I'm jarred into realizing,' replied Dwayne. "'It's the hardest, barring Mural and Chesildine on the Texas border, but there's this difference. Mural and his day was known to deserve his infamous name. Chesildine and his day also. But I've found hundreds of men in southwest Texas who are your friends, who swear you never committed a crime. The farther south I get, the clearer this becomes. What I want to know is the truth. Have you ever done anything criminal?' "'Tell me the truth, Dwayne. It won't make any difference in my plan. And when I say crime I mean what I would call crime or any reasonable Texan.' "'That way my hands are clean,' replied Dwayne. "'You never held up a man, robbed a store for grub, stole a horse when you needed him bad? Never anything like that?' "'Somehow I always kept out of that, just when pressed the hardest.' "'Dwayne, I'm damn glad,' McNelly exclaimed, gripping Dwayne's hand. Glad for your mother's sake. But all the same, in spite of this, you are a Texas outlaw accountable to the state. You're perfectly aware that under existing circumstances, if you fell into the hands of the law, you probably hang. At least go to jail for a long term.' "'That's what kept me on the dodge all these years.' replied Dwayne. "'Certainly.' McNelly removed his cigar. His eyes narrowed and glittered. The muscles along his brown cheeks set hard and tense. He leaned closer to Dwayne, laid sinewy pressing fingers upon Dwayne's knee. "'Listen to this,' he whispered hoarsely. "'If I place a pardon in your hand, make you a free honest citizen once more. Clear your name of infamy. Make your mother, your sister proud of you. Will you swear yourself to a service? Any service I demand of you?' Dwayne sat stock still, stunned. Slowly, more persuasively, with shell of earnest agitation, Captain McNelly reiterated his startling query. "'My God!' burst from Dwayne. "'What's this? McNelly, you can't be an earnest.' "'Nevermore so in my life. I have a deep game. I'm playing at Square. What do you say?' He rose to his feet. Dwayne, as if impelled, rose with him. Ranger and outlaw then locked eyes that searched each other's souls. In McNelly's Dwayne-red truth, strong, fiery purpose, hope, even gladness, and a fugitive-mounting assurance of victory. Twice Dwayne endeavored to speak. Failed of all save a hoarse, incoherent sound, until, forcing back a flood of speech, he found a voice. "'Any service?' "'Every service. McNelly, I give my word,' said Dwayne. A light played over McNelly's face, warming out all the grim darkness. He held out his hand. Dwayne met it with his and a clasp that men unconsciously give in moments of stress. When the unclapsed and Dwayne stepped back to drop into a chair, McNelly fumbled for another cigar. He had bitten the other into shreds. And, lighting it as before, he turned to his visitor, now calm and cool. He had the look of a man who had justly won something at considerable cost. His next smooth was to take a long leather case from his pocket and extract from it several folded papers. "'Here's your pardon from the Governor,' he said quietly. "'You'll see when you look it over that it's conditional. When you sign this paper, I have here. The condition will be met.' He smoothed out the paper, handed Dwayne a pen, ran his forefinger along a dotted line. Dwayne's hand was shaky. Years had passed since he had held a pen. It was with difficulty that he achieved his signature. Buckley Dwayne. How strange the name looked. "'Right here ends the career of Buck Dwayne, outlaw and gunfighter,' said McNelly. And, seating himself, he took the pen from Dwayne's fingers and wrote several lines and several places upon the paper. Then, with a smile, he handed it to Dwayne. "'That makes you a member of Company A, Texas Rangers.' "'So that's it!' burst out Dwayne, a light breaking in upon his bewilderment. "'You want me for ranger service?' "'Sure, that's it,' replied the Captain, dryly. "'Now to hear what that service is to be. I've been a busy man since I took this job, and as you may have heard, I've done a few things. I don't mind telling you that political influence put me in here, and that up Austin Way there's a good deal of friction in the Department of State in regard to whether or not the ranger service is any good, whether it should be discontinued or not. I'm on the party side who's defending the ranger service. I contend that it's made Texas habitable. Well, it's been up to me to produce results. So far I have been successful. My great ambition is to break up the outlaw gangs along the river. I have never ventured in there yet because I've been waiting to get the lieutenant I needed. You, of course, are the man I had in mind. It's my idea to start way up the Rio Grande and begin with Chesildine. He's the strongest, the worst outlaw of the times. He's more than rustler. It's Chesildine and his gang who are operating on the banks. They're doing bank robbing. That's my private opinion, but it's not been backed up by any evidence. Chesildine doesn't leave evidences. He's intelligent. Cunning. No one seems to have seen him, to know what he looks like. I assume, of course, that you are a stranger to the country he dominates. It's five hundred miles west of your ground. There's a little town over there called Fairdale. It's the nest of a rustler gang. They rustle and murder at will. Nobody knows who the leader is. I want you to find out. Well, whatever way you decide is best you will proceed to act upon. You are your own boss. You know such men and how they can be approached. You will take all the time needed, if it's months. It will be necessary for you to communicate with me, and that will be a difficult matter. For Chesildine dominates several whole counties, you must find some way to let me know when I and my rangers are needed. The plan is to break up Chesildine's gang. It's the toughest job on the border. Resting him alone isn't to be heard of. He couldn't be brought out. Killing him isn't much better, for his select men, the ones he operates with, are as dangerous to the community as he is. We want to kill or jail this choice selection of robbers and break up the rest of the gang. To find them, to get among them somehow, to learn their movements, to lay your trap for us rangers to spring. That, Dwayne, is your service to me, and God knows it's a great one. I have accepted it, replied Dwayne. Your work will be secret. You are now a ranger in my service. But no one except the few I choose to tell will know of it until we pull off the job. You will simply be bucked, Dwayne, till it suits our purpose to acquaint Texas with the fact that you're a ranger. You'll see there's no date on that paper. No one will ever know just when you entered the service. Perhaps we can make it appear that all or most of your outlawry has really been good service to the state. At that, I believe it'll turn out so. McNally paused a moment in his rapid talk. Chewed his scar, drew his brows together in a dark frown, and went on. No man on the border knows so well as you, the deadly nature of this service. It's a thousand to one that you'll be killed. I'd say there was no chance at all for any other man besides you. Your reputation will go far among the outlaws. Maybe that and your nerve and your gunplay will pull you through. I'm hoping so. But it's a long, long chance against your ever coming back. That's not the point, said Dwayne. But in case I get killed out there, what? Leave that to me, interrupted Captain McNally. Your folks will know at once of your pardon and your ranger duty. If you lose your life out there, I'll see your name cleared. The service you render known. You can rest assured of that. I am satisfied, replied Dwayne. That's so much more than I dared to hope. Well, it's settled then. I'll give you money for expenses. You'll start as soon as you like. The sooner, the better. I hope to think of other suggestions, especially about communicating with me. Long after the lights were out and the low hum of voices had ceased round the campfire, Dwayne lay wide awake, eyes staring into the blackness, marvelling over the strange events of the day. He was humble, grateful to the depths of his soul. A huge and crushing burden had been lifted from his heart. He welcomed this hazardous service to the man who had saved him. Thought of his mother and sister and Uncle Jim, of his home, of old friends, came rushing over him the first time in years that he had had happiness in the memory. The disgrace he had put upon them would now be removed, and in the light of that, his wasted life of the past, and its probable tragic end in future service as atonement, changed their aspects. And as he lay there, with the approach of sleep finally dimming the vividness of his thought, so full of mystery, shadowy faces floated in the blackness around him, haunting him as he had always been haunted. It was broad daylight when he awakened. McNally was calling him to breakfast. Outside sounded voices of men, crackling of fires, snorting and stamping of horses, the barking of dogs. Dwayne rolled out of his blankets and made good use of the soap and towel and razor and brush, nearby on a bench, things of rare luxury to an outlaw on the ride. The face he saw in the mirror was as strange as the past he had tried so hard to recall. Then he stepped to the door and went out. The rangers were eating in a circle round our tarpaulin spread upon the ground. Fellows, said McNally, shake hands with Buck Dwayne. He's on secret ranger service for me. Service that'll likely make you all hump soon. Mind you, keep mum about it. The rangers surprised Dwayne with a roaring greeting. The warmth of which he soon divined was divided between pride of his acquisition to their ranks and eagerness to meet that violent service of which their captain hinted. They were jolly, wild fellows, with just enough gravity in their welcome to show Dwayne their respect and appreciation while not forgetting his lone wolf record. When he had seated himself in that circle, now one of them, a feeling subtle and uplifting pervaded him. After the meal Captain McNally drew Dwayne aside. Here's the money. Make it go as far as you can. Better strike straight for El Paso. Sneak around there and hear things. Then go to Valentine. That's near the river and within fifty miles or so of the edge of the rim-rock. Somewhere up there Chesildine holds Fort. Somewhere to the north is a town Fairdale. But he doesn't hide all the time in the rocks, only after some daring raid or hold-up. Chesildine's got border towns on his staff, or scared of him, and these places we want to know about, especially Fairdale. Write me care of the adjunate at Austin. I don't have to warn you to be careful with your mail letters. Write a hundred, two hundred miles if necessary, or go clear to El Paso. McNally stopped with an air of fidelity, and then Dwayne slowly rose. I'll start it once, he said, extending his hand to the Captain. I wish I'd like to thank you. Hell, man, don't thank me! Replyed McNally, crushing the proffered hand. I've sent a lot of good men to their deaths, and maybe you're another. But, as I've said, you've one chance and a thousand, and by heaven I'd hate to be Chesildine, or any other man you were trailing. No, not good-bye. Adios, Dwayne. May we meet again.